


i am human and i need to be loved, just like everybody else does

by getmean



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bisexual Male Character, M/M, Pre-Canon, therapy can be getting railed, this is just like: on god we're gonna get you some dick bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:40:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28680492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getmean/pseuds/getmean
Summary: Javi’s never had anybody serious. Just a long string of guys and girls who fall into his bed one night and out of it the next, more often than not with a green card clutched victorious in hand for trading info between fucks.
Relationships: Javier Peña/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 26





	i am human and i need to be loved, just like everybody else does

**Author's Note:**

> okay never did i think i would be writing narcos fic but someone sent me an askbox prompt and here i am . so if facts are wrong i did get it wrong bc i did. no i didn't <3
> 
> enjoy!

It happens a couple years before the whole Escobar thing really (literally) blows up. Before Javi gives himself over to long hot nights and all-consuming stress, to violence, to bloodshed; to an irritating partner and even more frustrating people in charge of him. Before all that, Javi’s time was split between the bar around the corner from the rental he was only supposed to spend a month in, and long hours listening to crackly conversation over a headset.

Every so often, they’d get news and be able to bust some small-time drug dealer; something that felt pretty rewarding mostly because of all their useless inaction. It never got them any closer to the centre of it all, because the centre of it all was going to reveal himself to them soon anyway. Not that they knew it. Maybe if Javi did, he wouldn’t have had to spent so many hours listening to guys talking to their mothers, or their wives, or their mistresses. 

Well, that last one wasn’t so much of a hardship, most of the time. Number one thing a guy is gonna do when he’s stuck at home with his wife is call his girl. Little dirty talk; maybe someone jerks off. Javi never knows which part it is that gets him hard. The woman’s breathy, sultry murmuring, or the coarse, bitten-out language of her lover. 

He’s stuck at the desk listening to one of those conversations now. Hunched over the notepad in front of him, on which the only thing scrawled is a half-hearted doodle of a man hanging himself. In his ear, a woman hisses, _you wanna fuck me, baby?_ Her boyfriend replies, creatively, _yeah I wanna fuck you._

Still, Javi sneaks a hand under the table. Rubs the pad of his thumb down the half-hard shape of himself in his pants as he scrawls on the pad, _to buy: milk, beer, apples._ It’s just him in the office; all the other guys have left long ago. Just him, and the yellow light of the lamp on his desk; the only illumination on the whole floor, probably. Like a spotlight. He parts his thighs a little; gets comfortable. The headset is pinching his ears slightly, and Javi adjusts it just as the girl moans. It’s a huge, theatrical noise; so loud that even if he’d been across the room making coffee, he probably still would’ve heard it. Sweat springs up between his shoulder blades, dick perking up even further between his legs as the guy on the line grunts, and then comes the telltale sound of skin on skin. 

He supposes, in some way, that this is pretty goddamn illegal. On so many levels it’d probably make his head spin. But shit, he’s not jerking off. His dick is in his pants, though it seems pretty hell-bent on sending the buttons in his fly pinging in all directions. He’s even still technically on the clock. All above board, or at least that’s what it’ll look like, if somebody were to follow his spotlight and walk in. 

That’s part of the thrill. The velvety darkness pressing in on all sides of Javi’s yellow circle of light. The fact that he can barely hear anything beyond the show going on in his headset. Most guys switch off when they intercept a call like this. Use the handful of minutes it takes to go piss, make coffee, go chat up the new receptionist, whatever. Nobody’s gonna leak big cartel secrets on the edge of orgasm, right? 

Javi normally takes a break too, only he hasn’t gotten laid in over two weeks, and he’d cracked into the whiskey he keeps in the drawer about forty minutes ago. It means now he’s got a good warm glow going; a kinda looseness that always leads to regrettable decisions. So it’s not his fault this phone call has him snagged as though they’d slid a fishhook through his headphone, and tugged. It’s the whiskey, the late hour, his own stubborn loneliness, whatever.

He presses the heel of his hand absently against his dick. Writes down next to the grocery list, _places escobar could be: right under my nose._

Jesus, the girl is going for it. Javi can imagine her lying on her belly, phone between her shoulder and ear as she files her nails, and makes all those noises into the receiver for her dirtbag boyfriend. One of those glamorous types; wicked nails and big hair and tight skirts. They’ve always got a guy so ugly you wonder what the attraction is; what’s keeping her making these kinda noises for him down the phone. But it’s money, of course. It’s always fucking money. 

_You gonna cum for me?_ she purrs, disinterest thick in her voice when she’s not busy moaning. Javi snorts, and rolls his eyes; reaches for the glass of whiskey, which he drains. The liquor is room-temp, which means it’s warm, which means it goes down like medicine. He coughs. The guy on the phone cums, his breathing like loud static wind through the headset. With a grunt, Javi pulls it off, and lets the guy pant out his faraway orgasm against Javi’s neck. The girl didn’t even have the energy to fake one. If Javi wasn’t still hard and halfway turned-on, he’s sure his skin would be crawling right around now. 

There was this guy back in Texas he used to knock around with, on the sly. A skinny white boy tanned and sunbeaten like old leather, name of Dalton. Used to work on his father’s ranch all day and then come drinking in the same place Javi used to frequent, stinking like sweat and sun. The bar was a pretty well-known cruising spot; one of those open secrets everyone turns a blind eye to. Dalton had slid the toe over his boot over the top of Javi’s foot. The rest is history.

He’s on Javi’s mind tonight. Dalton; slim-hipped and irreverent and fun in bed. They weren’t anything serious, but then Javi’s never had anybody serious. Just a long string of guys and girls who fall into his bed one night and out of it the next, more often than not with a green card clutched victorious in hand for trading info between fucks. In fact, Javi’s got one on his mind now; his hard dick nagging at him in that way only arousal can. Insistent, making him reckless when paired with the whiskey. He’s turning the radio off before he knows it, silencing the post-coital talk he can hear murmuring away against his throat. Then, pulling the phone towards him, punching in a string of numbers he knows by heart now. 

Listening to the line ring, Javi wonders if he’s really doing this. But before his conscience, or any good sense, can figure it out, the ringing has stopped and a man’s voice is murmuring, “Javi?”

Staring off into the thick darkness of the midnight office, Javi raises his eyebrows. “How’d you know?” he asks, fumbling a cigarette from the packet by his elbow as the voice on the other end makes an amused noise.

“Only one person ever calls me this late.”

Now that Javi’s looking at something besides his own lamplit notepad, he can see his circle of light is wider than he thought. It shines in the handles on the filing cabinets, skates over various things scattered about the room; pens, monitors, the coffee machine’s half-full carafe. “Huh,” he mumbles, silent for a moment while he lights his smoke. The chair creaks as he leans back in it, and smoothes his tie flat against his chest. “Well. You caught me.”

His hand continues, down over the buckle of his belt to cup at himself through his pants. Hips tipping up unconsciously into the touch. 

The voice asks, “You wanna meet, huh?” 

“Oh, y’know,” Javi mutters, and ashes absently in the dish on the desk. “Got some things to go over. Double-check some intel…” He trails off, uninterested in putting more energy into the lie than needed. Both of them know what a midnight phone call means. 

“Same place?” 

Javi gazes off into the darkness. Catches the eyes of his reflection in the window opposite; the lights of the city flowing out below. He watches himself nod, sharply. “Uh huh. As always.”

The line clicks. Javi sits for a moment more, and then starts up from his seat as though electrocuted, grabbing at his jacket, his smokes; draining the last of the whiskey in the bottle down his throat. A glance at himself in the mirrored wall of the elevator a minute later shows that he’s beyond any kind of hair-smoothing-down; the big black bags under his eyes are really dragging his whole look down. But then the door dings and slides open, and he’s cast out into the ebb and flow of nighttime Medellín. 

—— 

Emilio is easy to spot amongst the handful of people flitting around the bar, when Javi enters. Call it familiarity, call it some sorta magnetism that’s centred firmly in his dick, Javi just picks him out as easy as anything. The dark curl of his hair, his sharp profile as his head turns, watching the bartender serve the guy next to him. Javi hangs back by the door for a second, and just watches. Imagines himself as a a stranger, and tries to see Emilio as a stranger too. Slight, and tall, quick to smile. Javi’s got a specific type that extends to both men and women. He’d probably approach him even if they were both strangers. You can’t resist the call of attraction for long. 

He kisses Javi on each cheek, once he approaches. Hand on his waist as he greets him warmly. “What are you drinking?” he asks, with a flash of a teeth. “Usual?” 

“You know me,” Javi mutters, trying not to lean forwards as Emilio moves back. “Creature of habit.” 

“Yeah, you are.”

It’s tequila; not even close to Javi’s usual. Still, he drinks it, him and Emilio crammed together in a booth with their feet and knees touching under the table. When Javi nudges at him, Emilio nudges back, the two of them trading smiles and covert, warm looks across their drinks. 

Javi lights a cigarette. Emilio follows suit, and says, “Up late.”

It’s not a question. Javi still answers it, turning his eyes down to the tabletop and muttering, “Yeah, working.”

His dick has relented somewhat, on the walk over. Still, he’s turned on. He doesn’t need to be hard to be turned on. He can feel it everywhere; skin prickling and coming up in goosebumps everywhere that Emilio touches him. He’s an affectionate, easy guy. It’s what had attracted Javi to him; besides his face, besides the thick dark hair on his chest. And the information he’s got, of course. 

He’s a cab driver. Probably sees everything the city has to offer before the sun has reached the high point in the sky. All the corruption, the violence, the spreading drug trade. He trades Javi information with a green card on the horizon as his prize. Javi still isn’t sure whether Emilio is sleeping with him out of want, or out of necessity.

He sips his tequila. Fights the urge to curl his lip at its taste. They don’t really have much to talk about, when it comes down to it. Javi hazards a sly, “I’ve been thinking about you,” just to fill the silence between them. It’s not like it’s uncomfortable. But Javi doesn’t need silence tonight. He needs — well. What he needs he can’t exactly have in this booth in this busy little bar, lit all over by pink and green neon lights. They shine in Emilio’s black eyes when he smiles; in his big white teeth. 

“Like what?” he asks.

Javi shrugs, languidly. “Oh, you know.” He almost says, _the usual_ , but considering the taste of tequila on his tongue, he’s not sure Emilio will get it. “Can’t say here,” he adds, and Emilio’s smile grows. His foot insinuates itself in between Javi’s boots. 

“You’re in that kinda mood?”

Javi inclines his head. “Pretty much.”

Look — there’s something therapeutic about a good fuck. Don’t try to deny it. About getting worked out, fucked good; made to feel something very different than the usual day-to-day. Like a deep tissue massage; real goddamn deep. And he can’t get the same thing with a woman. Javi doesn’t try to understand the reasoning behind it, because it’s not his to know. Sometimes he’s so at whim to his body that it feels as though he’s just getting carried along by its tides. 

Under the table, Emilio’s calf presses in between his own. Javi nudges the pillar of ash on the end of his cigarette against the dish between them, and murmurs, “I want you to fuck me until I forget my own name.”

The music on the jukebox almost drowns his words. But Javi knows Emilio heard. His eyebrows rise, the corner of his mouth curls. The fingers that had been toying with the rim of his glass creep across the table; touch briefly to the hand Javi has flat on the sticky wood. 

“I thought you said you couldn’t say it here,” he says. 

Javi tips his head to the side, eyes on the glowing cherry of his cigarette. “Figured you need to know how serious I am.”

Emilio laughs. “Consider me told.”

They grin across the table at each other, until Javi snorts and glances away, bringing his cigarette to his mouth as he looks around the bar. It’s busy, tonight. The music loud and lively, the room dark and close and humid. Emilio’s throat shines with sweat. The pits of his shirt are dark with it. Javi wants to taste it, wants to smell it. Wants to get away from this noisy bar and sweat out some of his tension in the comfort of his own bed. He thinks Emilio can tell. The guy is watching Javi through the haze of his cigarette smoke, thumb pressed to the middle of his full lips, eyes dark and sharp as a knife. 

It always comes down to this, between them. Javi’s sweating into his shirt, his hairline wet with the heat of the room. “I’m hard,” he announces, and drains the last of his drink. Stubs his cigarette out. “You wanna head out?”

Emilio doesn’t move. Just takes a drag from his cigarette, and touches his thumb again to his bottom lip. The smoke streams from his nose, and then his next words pin Javi to the back of the booth, as easily as if he’d stuck something through him to sink into the padded foam. 

“Show me, first.” 

The music surges into the silence that follows. Javi, sweating, turned-on, drunk, just blinks at him. “Here?” he asks, as if he’s not gonna do it. As if he isn’t already settling his shoulders back against the seat, as if he isn’t already spreading his thighs, stomach an electric ball of arousal. 

“Right here,” Emilio says, and the lights catch in his teeth as he grins. “And then we can go.”

The thing about Javi is that he spends so many hours of the day having to think for himself, that when someone he’s fucking tells him to jump, he immediately asks, _how high?_ It’s a whole thing. But shit, he knows what some of the higher ups get up to in their free time. What Javi’s into looks tame in comparison. Power breeds depravity. Lucky for him he’s some middle rung of an entire game of chutes and ladders. 

His hands drop to his belt. Emilio’s eyes are dark and hungry, and not for the first time, Javi wonders who ever has the upper hand in all these little trysts he’s so prone to. What’s the definition of madness again? Shit, he can barely think. The music covers up the rattle of his belt, and then he’s pulling at the button fly of his jeans in one movement. _Pop pop pop pop_. Emilio’s smile grows; turns sharp and wicked. Javi curses under his breath, glancing around the room as he pulls his hard dick from his pants. 

It aches from being pressed up against his fly, hard and ignored for so long. Hot in his hand, curving against his belly and wet at the tip. Javi can barely enjoy the feeling of Emilio looking at him, his pulse pounding in his ears as he drags his eyes back to the man opposite. _Barely._ He knows later this’ll be prime jerk off material; the exhibitionism, the being-told-what-to-do. The risk of someone spotting them, and seeing him in such a state. 

He squeezes his dick, exhales shakily. Emilio takes a drag from his cigarette, and reaches out to crush it into the ashtray. “You’d jerk off right now if I told you,” he says, conversationally. Javi shoots him a beseeching look, to which Emilio laughs at. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t. C’mon, let’s go.”

Trying not to feel disappointed — because how fucked up would that be? — Javi tucks his dick away, and stands, feeling wobbly from more than just the alcohol. Emilio puts a hand to the small of his back, looking pretty and wild in the coloured neon lights. Leans in close, and adds, “I can’t believe you just did that.”

Javi’s face feels hot. “You told me to,” he hisses back, as they both escape to the street. It’s marginally cooler outside; just enough of a breeze to start drying the sweat on Javi’s nape. Emilio is still grinning, his teeth catching at his lower lip as he pokes at Javi, right in the middle of his chest. 

“If only your cop buddies knew how you act ‘round me.” 

Javi knocks his hand away, and smooths his palm over the place Emilio poked him. “Shut up,” he snaps, and then glances up the street. Throngs of people congregate in the doorways of the bars that line the street; coloured light spilling onto the road like oil-slick puddles. “C’mon, I don’t wanna be spotted.”

Emilio pokes at him again, just to make Javi bristle with annoyance, and then they’re off; flagging down a taxi to take them across the city, to where Javi’s rental sits.

It’s a one-bedroom apartment, sat above a garage and sandwiched between a convenience store and a neat home seemingly overrun with kids. Javi hears them thundering around the place all day, but at night they fall silent, along with the garage and the store. Blank, black windows greet him as he and Emilio fall out of the taxi; the other man sticking close behind as Javi takes the steps to his apartment two at a time. He’s so turned on he feels like anybody would be able to smell it on him. If it wasn’t the whole getting-his-dick-out-in-the-bar thing, it was the phone call, it was his accidental two week dry spell, it was the stress from work, it was —

Emilio takes his keys from him, and threads the right one from the bunch, slots it into the door. Javi watches him do it, dry-mouthed, dick throbbing, wondering dimly if it’s a good idea that this guy knows which key unlocks his front door. 

He hands them back, their fingers brushing. From the pit of his stomach, Javi summons up a croaky, “Thanks.”

They linger on the threshold. Up close, Emilio smells like heavy aftershave, and cigarettes. Did he put that on to come see Javi? Doesn’t he know that Javi likes the smell of sweat over anything else? It’s that _the usual?_ thing all over again. Nobody ever really knows you like you think they do. 

“Age before beauty,” Emilio says, once it becomes clear that Javi isn’t budging. The words shake him out of his drunk-horny haze, and he rolls his eyes, steps over the threshold with Emilio hustling him along from behind.

They get right down to it. Were they ever gonna do anything else? Hell, they’d barely sat through one drink in that bar before Emilio had Javi get his dick out. Sometimes a relationship can just be sex. Sometimes it _should_ just be sex. And fuck, they’re pretty damn good at it. 

Javi’s stripping his shirt over his head before Emilio really touches him; groaning when the man skates his hands up Javi’s sides in the wake of his shirt. Thumbs passing over his nipples, cupping at his face as Emilio drags him close for a kiss. Javi makes a low, desperate noise into it, grabbing at Emilio’s belt and working the buckle loose as they trip backwards through the dark apartment. 

“Shit,” Javi curses, as his shin connects solidly with the wooden base of the sofa, but then he’s toppling backwards and bringing Emilio down with him, and he remembers just how much better being horizontal is. The hard shape of Emilio fits up snugly against the crease of his thigh, the other man grinding into him as Javi fumbles his own fly open again. The catch of denim to his hard dick; painfully rough, so fucking perfect. Javi moans, clutches at Emilio’s ass, and then — he stills. 

“Stop,” Emilio mutters, his hand pressed flat to Javi’s bare sternum. Hot palm, the vague dig of his fingernails. “Take ‘em off.” 

“My boots,” Javi pants, and then laughs, pressing the crown of his head back into the sofa cushions. “Shit, gimme a hand —”

They wrestle his boots off, and then his pants, Emilio cursing him out first for his knotted laces, and then again for the tight denim. But in short order Javi’s kneeling naked on the sofa, his mind smoothing out to a pleasant, low-grade hum as Emilio knots his fingers into his hair, and presses his face into the scratchy cushions. 

“ _Yes,_ ” he sighs, voice muffled. He doesn’t know whether Emilio hears — doesn’t know if he even cares. All that matters is this; the silent apartment, the whitenoise whirr of his mind, and Emilio’s fingers teasing wet and cold against his ass.

Javi would be lying if he said he doesn’t keep a discreet bottle of lube stashed away under the coffee table. It sits innocuously between a tube of lotion, and a few paperbacks he’s never — and will never — read. Emilio’s been here enough times to know to seek it out without having to be asked. 

Emilio pulls on his hair, forcing Javi’s face up from the cushions. Javi, grinning, makes a pleased noise. Emilio laughs, not meanly — but almost there. “Huh, if they could see you now,” he mutters, and Javi laughs too. His dick twitches between his legs. “On your knees, giving yourself up —”

“Yeah, yeah,” Javi breathes. “C’mon, you’re not getting graded on speaking.”

Behind him, Emilio snorts. A third finger twists its way inside of him, a dull burn followed by electric pleasure. Javi moans, mouth dropping open as he presses back into that feeling. 

“You’re the bossiest guy I’ve ever fucked,” Emilio says, his fingers moving quick and wet into Javi now; working him out in that way that _almost_ scratches the itch he’s been feeling all day. 

“Go figure,” Javi groans, and Emilio presses his face back into the pillows in reply. Javi takes it for the _shut up_ it undoubtedly is. 

What he really likes about Emilio is that he’s young, he’s hot, and he doesn’t fuck around. Sure, he thinks life is a porno but don’t most twenty-something year old guys? What’s more important is that he’s got a big dick and a dirty kinda eagerness that’s not easy to find. Makes Javi feel real good when he finally presses into him, his hot palm on the side of Javi’s face, pressing him down as if he’d go anywhere even if he could. As if he doesn’t feel completely fucking pinned in place as the guy pushes in, and gets to fucking him before Javi even has time to really feel him. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Javi bites out, screwing his eyes shut as his toes curl in thin air, Emilio laughing breathlessly as he fucks away at him. He guesses he must be as pent up as Javi himself is, judging by the way Emilio manhandles him onto his dick; grabbing at Javi’s hips and bucking up into him as they moan and sweat and rock together into the cushions. 

Javi, his mind has turned to syrup. Pure bliss. He couldn’t conjure up something to be stressed at if he tried. Grinning into the cushion under his face, eyes and mouth wet as he groans and pants and sobs. And Emilio’s really taken his note on the talking seriously; the apartment is full of nothing but the sounds of their fucking; of cursing, harsh breathing, the sound of skin on skin. Javi works his arm under his head; tucks his face into the crook of his elbow as he grits his teeth at the shallow, fast slide of Emilio’s dick. Works his other arm under himself too; curling his fingers around his own dick, wet and hard and hot to the touch. 

“You’re such a bitch, sometimes,” Emilio mutters, amusement in his voice, rough with arousal. 

Javi huffs, pressing back onto the guy’s dick, his internal silent monologue of _more, deeper, harder for fuck’s sake,_ interrupted when he snarks back, “Didn’t I tell you your dirty talk stinks?” 

“I don’t listen to you when you get like this,” Emilio retorts, and Javi just throws a hand back to catch at the man’s hip, to pull him in close until he’s as deep inside as he can go. And for a moment, they linger like that; Emilio with his chest pressed up against Javi’s front, his arms locked around Javi’s chest; sweating, panting, the fly of his pants cool and rough against Javi’s ass. 

“Fuck me like this,” Javi murmurs, his voice low and catching in his throat. He squeezes at Emilio’s hip. “Wanna feel you all the way in me.”

“Shit.” Javi feels Emilio press his forehead to his nape. Then, his hips start to move again, and Javi’s mouth opens on a silent moan at the deep, rough drag of Emilio inside him. Filling him up, the thick, hard length of him, pressing in so deep that Javi swears he could feel it in his fucking stomach. He curses, and moans; the noise rough and desperate, yanked up from deep inside him. That earlier fucking had been fun, it’d been good, but this — Javi twists, mindless and moaning, unable to go far with Emilio pinning him down inside and out. This is what he needed. His eyes are tearing up. His mouth is dry, stomach sparking with arousal as his dick leaks into the pillow below him. 

“Yeah,” he manages, eyes screwed shut as the feeling builds and builds in him. “Yeah, shit, I’m gonna —” 

Emilio’s hand slides over Javi’s belly, following the line of his hair down to where his dick is hard and wanting. He barely has to touch him before Javi’s coming, shuddering and moaning and rocking back on the hardness still filling his ass, his mind a pure white slate of nothingness as he shakes through it. 

“Old man,” Emilio says, affectionately, tugging idly on Javi’s dick as he comes down from his orgasm. “Minute man.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Javi mumbles, dreamily, every muscle in his body turned to jell-o as he relaxes down into the sofa. His orgasm still thrums through him, makes him gasp when Emilio pinches at his nipple; feeling tingly and oversensitive all over. 

“Should I keep going?” 

Javi hums, all the urgency wrung out of him. “Yeah, fuck me,” he breathes, and then moans as Emilio starts moving inside him again; slow and deep, little more than rocking into Javi’s ass. His spent dick, wet and softening in Emilio’s grip, twitches half-heartedly. 

Emilio huffs, amused. “Again?” he murmurs, and Javi shakes his head, feeling as though every fibre of him has been taken out, steam-ironed, and put back inside him. 

“I’m like a snake,” he slurs, as Emilio picks up the pace a little, obviously racing towards his own finish. Javi’s toes curl at the feeling. “All I need is a good fuck once every few weeks.” 

Emilio’s laugh is tight with pleasure; almost a moan. “You don’t say?” he groans, and then he’s pressing hard into Javi’s ass, so close his open fly pinches against the soft, tender skin where thigh meets ass. Javi hisses at the feeling, but then Emilio is clutching his waist, making a low noise deep in his chest as he follows Javi over the edge, and spills inside of him. 

The apartment is silent, in the wake of it. Just the tick of the clock over the stove, and the hum of the refrigerator. Javi’s heart, beating in his ears, in his eyes, in the roof of his mouth. And then he shifts, and Emilio moans, and then there’s a lot of moving and cursing and laughter.

“You got my pants wet —”

“I didn’t make you keep them on —”

“Sorry, did you say you get fucked like a snake?”

“You never heard of a metaphor?”

Javi goes to the bathroom. Washes his hands, and pats the cold water into his burning cheeks, his sweaty nape. Looks at himself in the mirror, and grins. 

When he returns, Emilio’s tucked his dick away, through the wet spot on his jeans is more than incriminating enough. Javi snorts at it as he passes, fetching a glass of water before slumping back into the sofa, and accepting the pack of smokes that Emilio tosses into his lap. 

“Satisfied?” he asks, as Javi lights up, eyes fluttering shut at the first hit of nicotine to his orgasm-empty head. 

“Fuck, yeah.” He exhales slowly. “Exactly what I needed.”

The water passes hands. Emilio’s chest and throat shine in the light of the streetlamp, leaking through Javi’s half-shuttered blinds. Javi lets his eyes trace over him; the shift of muscles under his skin, the wink of a gold necklace in his chest hair, the black hair under his arms as he raises them up to stretch. 

“Was it good for you?” he asks, and Emilio grins at him. Their shoulders bump as he leans in close; presses a kiss to Javi’s cheek. 

“Hey, I picked up the phone, didn’t I?” 

Javi snorts, and drops his eyes to the cherry of his cigarette, glowing warmly in the dark room. “Yeah,” he mutters. He’s sobering up. “Hey, you want a drink?” Javi’s rising before Emilio answers. “What d’you want?”

Emilio hooks his elbow over the back of the sofa, watching Javi open cupboards, produce glasses, ice, bottles. “I can’t stay for long,” he says. When Javi doesn’t answer he adds, softly, “The usual, Javi.” 

That guy, Dalton, back in Texas. They split up when Javi came out here; didn’t stay in touch because why would they? But he’d said something once, after sex, the two of them lying together sweaty and sated and arguing, just a little. _You’re a contrary sonofabitch._ Rattled it off like that in his long Texan drawl, where son-of-a-bitch is just one word. Javi can’t remember what he said for Dalton to call him that, but the line had stuck with him. _Contrary sonofabitch._ Well, the guy wasn’t wrong. 

Whiskey splashes into each glass. Javi, still feeling dreamy and brainless from their sex, smiles complacently at Emilio as he hands the drink over.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading!! :~)


End file.
